


It Was Twenty Years Ago Today

by Nightdog_Barks



Category: House M.D.
Genre: Backstory, Dancing, Friendship, School Reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-02-15
Updated: 2007-02-15
Packaged: 2017-10-18 04:33:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/185031
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nightdog_Barks/pseuds/Nightdog_Barks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On a road trip into Wilson's past, House finds out a little more than he wanted to know.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It Was Twenty Years Ago Today

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [](http://topaz-eyes.livejournal.com/profile)[**topaz_eyes**](http://topaz-eyes.livejournal.com/), [](http://perspi.livejournal.com/profile)[**perspi**](http://perspi.livejournal.com/), and [](http://deelaundry.livejournal.com/profile)[**deelaundry**](http://deelaundry.livejournal.com/) for their thoughtful read-throughs, questions, and editorial suggestions.

_**Housefic: It Was Twenty Years Ago Today**_  
 **STATUS:** Crossposted to [](http://house-wilson.livejournal.com/profile)[**house_wilson**](http://house-wilson.livejournal.com/) , 1/4/07.  
 **TITLE:** It Was Twenty Years Ago Today  
 **AUTHOR:** [](http://nightdog-writes.livejournal.com/profile)[**nightdog_writes**](http://nightdog-writes.livejournal.com/)  
 **PAIRING:** House-Wilson  
 **RATING:** PG  
 **WARNINGS:** None, except for a small dose of schmoop at the end.  
 **SPOILERS:** No; it's just a story.  
 **SUMMARY:** On a road trip into Wilson's past, House finds out a little more than he wanted to know.  
 **DISCLAIMER:** Don't own 'em. Never will. Also own absolutely nothing related to the two songs quoted very briefly in the story.  
 **AUTHOR NOTES:** Many thanks to [](http://topaz-eyes.livejournal.com/profile)[**topaz_eyes**](http://topaz-eyes.livejournal.com/) , [](http://perspi.livejournal.com/profile)[**perspi**](http://perspi.livejournal.com/) , and [](http://deelaundry.livejournal.com/profile)[**deelaundry**](http://deelaundry.livejournal.com/) for their thoughtful read-throughs, questions, and editorial suggestions.  
This story began life as [](http://daasgrrl.livejournal.com/profile)[**daasgrrl**](http://daasgrrl.livejournal.com/) 's fluff!fic, but soon took on a life of its own. Her story became _2 Tbsp Elephants_ ; this tale kept going until House and Wilson were finished talking. It took a while.  
 **BETA: Silverjackal,** who said "Paperclips!"

  
 **It Was Twenty Years Ago Today**

  
 _Spring, 2007_

  
It was a morning like any other morning. House limped towards the hospital elevators, pointedly ignoring everyone else around him. Spotting a couple of screaming kids, he briefly considered swinging his cane at them, but dropped the idea. Eleven a.m. was too early to be using up his daily quota of hitting people, no matter how much they deserved it.

As he progressed across the wide expanse of marble floors, past the potted plants and bored security guards, his pace slowed. After a moment, he stopped entirely. He turned slowly, intense blue gaze raking the lobby. He lifted his head a bit, seeming to sniff the air.

Something was wrong. He could feel it. There was a disturbance in the fabric of the universe.

He looked around again. Doctors, nurses, visitors, patients, FedEx guys, Wilson, those guys from Siemens who kept having to replace the MRI, lab techs -- wait a minute.

Wilson, buying a paper at the news kiosk. House squinted. A telltale set of wires led from Wilson's ears to his ever-present pocket protector.

House staggered backwards. The source of the negative energy, the rip in the time-space continuum, was clear.

Wilson was wearing an iPod.

In the elevator, House thought hard about what he'd just seen.

It wasn't that he didn't _know_ Wilson owned an iPod -- hell, he'd programmed the damn thing for him last year, filling it up with those stupid _show tunes_ Wilson liked so much. The soundtrack from _West Side Story. Oklahoma. South Pacific. Company. The Real Thing._ Sure, House had seized the opportunity to slip some _good_ stuff in there -- Cream, Etta James, Robert Johnson -- but he'd stuck to the list Wilson had given him. Mostly. It had been totally worth it to see Wilson's expression when _Oh, What A Beautiful Morning_ had segued directly into the growling bass of B.B. King's _Rusty Dusty Blues._

No, the problem was that Wilson never listened to his iPod at work. _Never._ Work was work, as Wilson was so fond of reminding him. Music was pleasure, and as such was to be denied at work. House considered this for a moment. If he didn't know Wilson was Jewish, he might think he was a Presbyterian.

The elevator doors _pinged_ open and House strode forth. He had a mystery to solve.

As it turned out, the mystery lasted only as long as the morning.

There were no Diagnostics cases so House had sent the kids away on various wild goose chases. It was good for them, he rationalized. Built character. He picked up his oversized dog-toy ball, the stapler, and a paper-clip dispenser and started a quick juggling routine.

Paper clips scattered from the dispenser like a school of tiny silver fish flashing through the air.

"Oops."

He stopped juggling, replaced the items on his desk, and stepped towards the balcony door.

Wilson was out there, sitting in his deck chair on the Oncology side of the balcony. His head was tilted back in the warm spring sun and his eyes were closed. The iPod wires were clearly visible leading from his lab coat pocket to his ears.

House stared. _The perfect opportunity!_ He opened the door slowly, carefully, willing it not to make any noise. He moved forward at the same slow pace, holding his cane close to his body and crouching instinctively like a great cat stalking its prey. Taking his time, inch by inch, he used both hands to swing himself over the balcony divider. The end of the cane struck the divider wall, making a small noise, and he froze. When nothing happened he crept closer.

Wilson hadn't stirred. Standing over him, House looked down at his friend. Wilson looked drawn, tense -- _sad._ This couldn't be allowed to continue. Reaching down, House yanked the iPod buds from Wilson's ears.

 _"Wha--"_ Wilson jerked up, blinking. "House? What the hell are you doing?"

House ignored him and stuck the buds in his own ears. And found _himself_ blinking as the voice of Whitney Houston reverberated in his head.

 _Oh! I wanna dance with somebody --  
I wanna feel the heat with somebody!  
Yeah! I wanna dance with somebody --  
With somebody who loves me!_

House looked at the iPod's screen and thumbed through the listed songs. _Faith. Walk Like An Egyptian. Livin' On A Prayer. Lady In Red._ These weren't _show_ tunes! This was hardly even _music!_

"Jimmy," he said finally, "are you okay?" He was immediately relieved when Wilson grabbed his iPod back and rolled his eyes.

"I'm fine, House," he muttered.

House shook his head. "If you're fine, why are you listening to this crap?"

"It's not crap!" Wilson snapped. "I was just ... thinking."

House stood very still. Oh, this wasn't good. Something bad always happened when Wilson started _thinking._ House usually ended up having to pay for his own lunch for a week. Better tread carefully.

"Thinking about what?" he asked. "Crappy music?"

Wilson propped his elbows on the arms of the deck chair and rested his head in his hands. At first House was afraid he'd poked just a little too hard, but then he saw the corner of Wilson's mouth quirk up and he relaxed. Wilson shook his head.

"No," he said. "I was thinking of a year." He dropped his hands. "1987."

 _Aha! **Another** mystery!_ House thought, but before he could redirect his mind to this new diversion, Wilson was up and beckoning him into his office.

House eased himself into the chair nearest the desk as Wilson tossed a large envelope to him.

"Mom sent this," he said. House waited for more, but that was it. He laid his cane on the floor and opened the envelope.

 _Jamie sweetheart,_

 _This came in the mail -- ours must be the last address they have for you. We'll be at your Aunt Estelle's that weekend, but thought you might be interested in seeing some of your old friends again. Did you get the pictures I sent from Maine? Give me a call --_

 _Love,  
Mom  
P.S. Dad sends his love too._

Keeping his face carefully expressionless, House filed everything away for future blackmail. There was a second, smaller envelope inside the first, and he removed it by the simple expedient of turning the larger envelope upside down.

The second envelope was obviously an invitation of some kind. Its thicker paper and ivory color screamed **"RSVP!"** He opened it and quickly scanned the contents.

 _Cordially invited blah blah blah Charles Addams High School blah blah twentieth reunion Class of 1987 --_

He looked up. Wilson was finding something interesting to look at on the ceiling.

"Well, Jimmy, you know what this means!"

Wilson stared at him. House was smiling. It was a terrifying sight.

"No," he said. "No, House. Out of the question. I'm not even going. Wild horses could not drag me there. No, no, and no."

 _  
**Two weeks later ...**   
_

"House, roll the window back up." Wilson's voice was weary. It was the sixth time he'd asked since they'd left Princeton-Plainsboro for the overnight trip.

"Fresh air. It's good for what ails you, Jimmy," House said. From the expression on Wilson's face, he could tell that Jimmy was considering stopping at a rest area, kicking House out of the car, and leaving him there. Time to head that thought off at the pass.

"Why didn't they have your current address?" he asked.

Wilson blinked, but he was used by now to House's conversational U-turns. "Didn't keep in touch." He shrugged as much he was able to while driving. "Not much reason to after I left for Chicago, and by McGill it was _really_ a moot point."

House frowned. This didn't make sense. Wilson? Mr. Popularity himself? Jimmy had to have had dozens -- no, hundreds, if not _thousands_ of friends in high school -- he was the type, if ever there was one. Athletic, smart, probably was Student Body President four years running -- Wilson was _everybody's_ friend. This was _definitely_ a mystery. Good thing he was on the case.

After a while he rolled up the window.

Wilson set the glass of scotch in front of House and sat down next to him.

They were in a quieter corner of the ballroom; the live band wasn't so ear-splittingly loud over here, and the dance floor was sufficiently far away that no one was tripping over House's cane.

House took a sip of scotch. So far this hadn't turned out like he thought it would at all. No one was coming up to Jimmy, shaking his hand, reliving old times. Not one of the men had approached to share stories of dating days, baseball days, _any_ days. Not a single woman had stopped by to give the original Mr. Panty-Peeler a kiss for old-times sake. No one was even coming up and making small talk. The only people who had really spoken to either of them had been the greeters at the front desk -- the ones handing out the laminated name-tags, each sporting a hideously inappropriate high-school class photo of the recipient. Jimmy had fumbled a little with the pin, and House had seized the opportunity to perform an ostensibly good deed and get a close look at an eighteen-year-old Wilson.

There were the same high cheekbones, but set in a leaner, more defined face. The brown hair had fallen in a tousled fringe even then. And the eyes -- the eyes hadn't changed at all. House had known Wilson long enough to realize that his friend wore a mask in front of most people. Kind Dr. Wilson. Friendly Dr. Wilson. Puppy-dog Dr. Wilson. Very few had seen through that mask; House had been one of the very few who'd actually pulled away the disguise. He wondered sometimes if that was how they'd become friends.

The eyes in the photo were dark and watchful: carefully weighing and evaluating everything and everyone, assessing possible threats and gauging responses.

The woman at the desk ( _Andrea Forsythe,_ her name-tag read) had seemed to hesitate just a moment before handing over the tag. Her smile had been wide and insincere.

"Nice to see you again, Jim," she'd said, and House had seen Wilson wince ever so slightly, and his response was just a split-second too late.

"Yes, well. It's good to be back in the old neighborhood."

Wilson's words were patently false, but Andrea didn't seem to notice.

"I'm sure there are _lots_ of people here just _dying_ to talk to you."

"No, that would be at work," House interjected, and winced himself as Wilson grabbed his elbow.

"Shut up," Wilson muttered, steering them away from the greeting table and into the ballroom. "I know it's painful, but please try to behave yourself for just one night."

"You're no fun at all," House complained, but had fallen silent. After that, they'd been alone at their table, watching the festivities go on around them. House had spotted a few glances their way and some subsequent hushed conversation, but otherwise their isolation was complete.

It was as if Jimmy were invisible.

He looked around the room and felt an unaccustomed curl of anger in his chest. Didn't these people know? Their classmate, James Wilson, was a doctor -- one of the youngest Department Heads at any hospital on the Eastern Seaboard. He fought Death to a standstill almost every day, gave patients hope to go on living. What were these people? Insurance salesmen, mathematicians, carpenters' wives. House brightened momentarily when he realized he'd just quoted _Tangled Up In Blue_ , but then quickly frowned again. These strangers didn't deserve to be in a Bob Dylan song, not with their galling insistence that Wilson didn't exist.

"It's okay, House. It hasn't changed. I got used to it." Wilson said.

House looked at him, startled. It always unnerved him a little when Wilson did that.

Wilson took a sip of his own drink. House watched his friend carefully. Wilson looked tired -- not especially upset or unhappy, just weary.

"You weren't listening to that music for pleasure," he said, suddenly realizing the truth. "You were reminding yourself how lousy high school was and why you wouldn't be coming to this reunion."

Wilson didn't look at him. House slumped back in his chair.

"I'm sorry I made you come," he murmured.

Now Wilson did look at him. "Don't worry about it," he said. "You didn't _make_ me come; it was my own choice. And it wasn't _all_ lousy."

 _No, just most of it._ House's mind supplied the unspoken corollary.

Wilson rolled his eyes. "Come on, House," he growled. "It's not like I was some kind of social hermit. I played baseball. Basketball. Belonged to clubs. I was friends with a lot of people."

"Yes," House said. "But was anyone friends with _you?_ "

Wilson's eyes narrowed. "What are you talking about?"

House sighed. God, Wilson could be so _obtuse_ sometimes.

"Is there anyone here who even knows your middle name? Your birthday?" He waved his right hand, indicating the room at large. "That you broke your arm when you were four? That your first pet was a dog named Badge? Sure, you were on athletic teams. You were popular. But you never had any real friends. You even got married three times looking for a real friend."

Wilson looked away. The ice in his gin and tonic rattled as he drained half the glass.

"Princeton-Plainsboro is the first place you've been where anyone cares about you."

"Yeah? Like who?"

House couldn't stop the words before they were out of his mouth. "Like me."

The two men stared at each other.

"You're a real piece of work, you know that?" Wilson said at last, shaking his head. It was obvious he thought House was teasing him.

"I have to be. It's how I do my job. I ask questions that require answers, and if being a piece of work is how I'll get them then that's what I am."

Wilson traced a line in the condensation on his glass. "Yes, but you still don't know everything about me."

House leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table.

"Okay. What was after Badge?"

"A cat," Wilson said promptly. "White, but David inexplicably named it Pepper. Had to give it to a neighbor after we found out Mom was allergic to it."

"What was the first thing you wanted to be when you grew up?"

Wilson smiled shyly. "A fireman."

"Who'd you take to the prom?"

"I would've taken Karen Adler, but she dumped me the night before."

House paused. Wilson had looked away again.

"She catch you shtupping her sister?"

"No, her brother."

All the air seemed to have vacated House's lungs.

 _Well, that explains everything,_ he thought.

"And now you think that explains everything."

"Stop that," House said automatically. "It doesn't help when you do that."

Wilson looked blank. "Do what?" he said.

"Never mind."

For one of the few times in his life, House was at a loss as he tried to absorb the revelation of Wilson doing it with Karen Adler's brother. And he didn't even know Karen Adler. Or her brother. What was his name? What had attracted Wilson? Was he handsome? Smart? Had Karen Adler told anyone? Why was he even thinking about this? Because no one was talking to Wilson, that's why.

They both sat silently for a moment.

"So," Wilson said, playing with a cocktail napkin, "Do you still mean what you said?"

"What did I say?" Wilson had thought he was teasing when he'd said he cared about him, and now Wilson was casually reading his mind. Obviously Wilson was an alien. Or clueless. Or both.

"Forget it. I knew this was stupid."

House's attention snapped back. Wilson sounded tired. Sad. Uh oh. Quick, say something.

"Of course I meant it. I still mean it." _What do I mean? Oh! That I care about Wilson! Well, of course I care about Wilson! Everyone cares about Wilson! Maybe I care a little more, but that's perfectly natural -- he's my best friend. Maybe my only friend, but definitely my best friend!_

Wilson was looking at him strangely.

"You're my best friend," House said.

"I'm your _only_ friend," Wilson replied.

"That too," said House. "But it doesn't mean that I don't care about you."

Wilson made a snorting, choking sound, and House automatically checked to see if he needed to perform a Heimlich maneuver.

"This is just a big social experiment to you, House. Your anthropologist side just wanted to see what the American rite of passage known as a "prom" was like, since you never had one." Wilson looked away. "That, or you thought you'd find out some juicy secrets about my misbegotten youth."

"Well, I did, didn't I?" House replied, taking another sip of his forgotten scotch. "Did Karen Adler tell anyone?"

Wilson smiled. "You think that's why no one's talking to me," he said.

"I really wish you wouldn't do that," House grumbled. Wilson ignored him.

"As a matter of fact, she _didn't_ tell anyone. She seemed to think it would reflect badly on her, somehow -- that the guy she'd been dating for three months was more interested in her brother than her."

"You can see how that would give a girl pause," House observed.

"True enough, and I didn't blame her. It was just --"

Wilson's voice stopped abruptly. Someone was approaching their table.

  
It was two someones -- a tall red-haired woman with her somewhat drunken male companion in tow.

"Jim!" the woman screeched. "Is it really you?"

House stole a glance at Wilson. His friend's face had gone pale and he looked like he wanted nothing so much as to dive under the table and not come out. Still, he gamely stood and offered his hand to the woman.

"Meg," he said. "It's been a long time."

The woman laughed. It was a shrill, unpleasant sound. "Well, I'll say! Tony here -- you remember Tony Stanton, don't you? -- said he thought it was you, but I said no, it _couldn't_ be!"

Wilson's smile appeared to be plastered on as he made the appropriate introductions. House used the few moments to study the woman and her date. He hadn't bothered to rise, and from his seat he had a clear view of the two.

 _Harpy,_ he thought, appraising the artificially red hair, the gimlet eyes, the unlined, unmoving forehead signaling Botox treatments. Her lips glowed crimson in the half-light of the ballroom. A long-buried memory suddenly resurfaced -- tigers roaring, the smell of sawdust, a terrifying painted face looming over his own.

 _Not a harpy. Clown._

House had despised the clowns. He had known even then that their happiness was false, their smiles drawn on with greasepaint.

He'd preferred the magicians, the lion tamers, the daring trapeze artists. They were real. They took chances.

Shaking his head, he forced his attention back to the present.

Meg's companion ( _Tony whatever_ , his brain supplied) seemed to have already drowned whatever sorrows he had and was swaying slightly on his feet. House noticed that Wilson hadn't offered either of them a seat.

Meg had fixed her voracious gaze on Wilson.

"I mean, after what happened at your _brother's_ prom," she said, "We just couldn't _imagine_ \-- what was his name again? Daniel? Donald? It was something with a 'D'."

"David," Wilson said quietly. "His name is David."

The woman snapped her fingers. House felt like breaking them.

"That was it! David Wilson!" She laughed again and turned to Tony, who was looking befuddled. "My sister Beenie told us all about it -- she was there! She told us how your brother showed up in that funny suit with all the buttons. He said he'd gotten it from the Salvation Army; that he got all his clothes from there because the government was sewing little tracking thingies in all his other stuff!"

Meg laughed again. "The Salvation Army! Can you imagine that? Of course, it was like _everybody_ always said -- the Wilsons aren't very _fancy!"_

Wilson was staring at the floor now.

"And that was before it got really good! Beenie said when he started smashing the glasses and threw the punchbowl --"

"Have you told Tony?"

House's question had taken the woman by surprise and stopped her in mid-sentence.

"Told him what?"

Wilson's head was up. House's expression was that of doctorly concern.

"That you're contagious."

Meg's mouth opened. No sound emerged. House gestured vaguely towards her face.

"You have a cold sore," he said, touching the corner of his own upper lip. "It's a very small chancre, but you can still give your sexual partners a raging case of herpes."

Tony's eyes widened.

"I ..." Meg was stumbling over her words.

"Of course, it might not be herpes," House continued in a musing tone. "It could be something much nastier. Lichen sclerosis, maybe. Sometimes that leads to cancer, you know." He smiled brightly. "And then you could come to Princeton-Plainsboro and have _Doctor_ Wilson here as your physician! Wouldn't that be _interesting,_ Jimmy?"

"Um," Wilson said.

"We'll be -- going now," Meg said, backing away.

"Meg, are you ... do you have ..." Tony was having difficulty formulating a question.

Meg grabbed his arm, taking him with her.

 _"No,"_ she snarled. "And keep your voice down!"

They disappeared back into the crowd.

  
Wilson stood for a moment longer, then slowly sat back down.

"Great party, huh?" House said.

When there was no answer, he glanced over. Wilson's attention was focused on tying the thin plastic straw that had been in his drink into a series of small knots.

"Come on, Jimmy, forget about it. She was a monster, poking you with a sharp stick to get a reaction."

At this Wilson smiled wanly.

"Yeah. Don't know anyone else who does that."

"Well, but see, I'm your bestest bud, not a monster. Big difference."

"You're a monster to your patients," Wilson pointed out. "And the kids sometimes."

"Spoilsport," House growled. "Let's talk about you some more." He ignored Wilson's aggrieved sigh. "You were going to go to the prom with Karen Adler and do what? Redeem the Wilson family name? Show everybody at least one of the Wilsons was normal?"

Wilson shot him a sharp look, but House plowed ahead.

"Instead you made sure you never got to the prom by boinking her brother. Dude! Dramatic, but one hell of an escape clause."

He leaned forward.

"So let's sum this up -- the high school party history of the Wilson boys. Your older brother went nuts. You screwed your girlfriend's brother. What the hell did Jon do? Bring a donkey and charge four dollars to watch?"

Wilson's hands were still toying with the plastic straw.

"No," he said. "By the time Jon was ready to graduate, we'd moved."

"Moved?"

"We were lucky to get in when we did," Wilson said. "The Witness Protection Program was just in its infancy back then. They even let us keep the donkey."

There was a long silence. Wilson's face was completely straight, brown eyes radiating sincerity.

"You," House said.

Wilson cocked his head.

"Bastard."

Wilson grinned.

House leaned back in his chair. "How much of what you've told me tonight is true?"

"How much do you _want_ to be true?"

House considered the question. How much _did_ he want to be true? That the Wilsons had had a white cat named Pepper? That James Wilson had screwed Karen Adler's brother? The leap from one to the other was so huge, so filled with unknown risk, that House suddenly felt what it must be like for the circus aerialist who stands waiting for the trapeze to swing back. Too quick, too late -- one false move and the chance is gone forever.

He looked around the ballroom. The lights had been lowered, and couples were on the dance floor, moving langorously to some slow song. The band was obviously in its "music for geezers" phase.

Somewhere along the line he'd lost control of this conversation, of this night. Wilson's high school years hadn't been anything like he had imagined; from the sound of it, they'd been depressingly similar to his own.

No prom for either of them.

"House?"

Wilson's voice. With a shock, House realized it was what he'd been waiting to hear.

He grinned at Jimmy.

"Would you care to dance?" he asked, and held out his arm.

Wilson stared at him, an unreadable expression on his face.

 _The trapeze swings, back and forth, describing a perfect arc. The aerialist waits patiently._

"Are you sure about this?" Wilson asked quietly.

 _The rigging comes close; the artist watches, his hand lifting._

"As sure as I've ever been of anything in my life," House said.

 _In the background, the music comes up. The trapeze swings back._

Wilson smiled. Pushing his chair back, he stood and took House's arm. The two men leaned gently on each other.

 _The aerialist grasps the bar firmly and swings out over the void, trusting his partner to catch him if he falls._

The band was still playing music for dead people, House noted, but at least it was good music. In their small corner of the ballroom, he and Wilson moved slowly to the notes of an old tune.

 _"Are the stars out tonight?  
I don't know if its cloudy or bright ..."_

House was dimly aware of people pointing and whispering. He didn't really care, and realized with only some small surprise that he never had.

 _The two aerialists swing above the earth in perfect unison, gathering momentum to make the leap._

"Where's your iPod?" House growled in Wilson's ear.

Wilson jerked back, startled.

"What?"

"Gotta reload it," House said. "Delete all that 1987 crap."

Wilson leaned back in, and House could feel him smiling a little against his neck.

"1987 was a crappy year," Wilson said. "I'm never coming to another one of these things."

"I wouldn't want you to," House replies, and leaps.

There's no net, but he doesn't care. He's always been one to take chances.

  
~ fin

  



End file.
